Chapter Twenty-three
Karen rang the doorbell, waited and rang it again. No answer. She went around to the back of the house to a small patio and saw Schreiner in the window watching TV Karen pounded on the back door and now Schreiner looked over at her. He picked a joint up out of the ashtray, took a hit and got up. She watched him come across the room toward her and open the door.
He grinned and blew out a cloud of smoke. "How about a toke?"
"Maybe later," Karen said.
Now he looked at her and seemed to focus on her wet hair and clothes.
"Jesus, what the hell happened to you?"
"I need a place to stay for a night," Karen said, stepping past him into the family room. He swung the door closed and grinned at her, lids swollen, eyes little slits.
Karen said, "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"God no," Schreiner said. "Peace in the valley."
"Can you put me up?"
"This have something to do with Samir?"
"Aren't you perceptive," Karen said. "Do you have an extra tee shirt and a pair of shorts I could borrow? I wouldn't mind taking a shower too."
"Anything I can do to make your stay at the Schreiner Hotel and Spa more comfortable," he said, grinning, powerless to stop it in his stoned-out condition. He held the roach between his thumb and index finger, the skin around his fingertips yellow from excessive toking.
They went upstairs and he got her a maize and blue University of Michigan tee shirt, and a pair of khaki shorts. The same outfit he was wearing, although his shirt had food stains all over it. "We'll be twins," Karen said.
"Whoopee," Schreiner said.
He showed her where the bathroom was and gave her a folded maize and blue University of Michigan towel. Karen took a hot shower behind a maize and blue University of Michigan shower curtain and felt better. Seeing Schreiner helped too, his laid-back hippie attitude and dry-as-kindling sense of humor made her feel more relaxed, less tense.
After what happened at the Townsend and the Red Roof Inn, there was no way Karen was going to risk staying at a hotel or motel in suburban Detroit. She assumed O'Clair and Ricky would have their people out, checking every place in town. She couldn't go to her mom's or her sister's or her friend Mika's, they were too obvious. So where? And just like that, Schreiner's face popped into her head.
Karen changed and went downstairs. She put her wet clothes in the dryer and joined him in the family room. They sat on the couch, watching a fifty-inch Sony flat screen, a program about praying mantises on the Discovery Channel. He looked gamey, like he hadn't shaved or taken a shower in a few days. His white-veined legs, the color of travertine marble, were stretched out on the coffee table, his bare feet with yellow toenails. The air was on and it was cold, like being in a meat locker.
"Know how they get their name?" Schreiner said.
"Something to do with how they fold their legs," Karen said. "Like they're praying."
Schreiner said, "You know the female runs the show, right?"
Karen met his gaze, but wasn't listening.
"What happens," Schreiner said, "she has sex with the male and then bites his head off."
Karen was mad at herself for going back to Lou's. She'd have to be a lot smarter if she was going to get out of town.
Schreiner looked at her and put the roach in an ashtray on the coffee table. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"
She met his gaze but didn't say anything. On TV a female mantis began to devour the head of her mate, whose body continued to move, gyrating as if he still had all his parts.
"You want to tell me what's going on?"
"Do you have anything to drink?" Karen said.
Schreiner got up and Karen followed him into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and said, "Corona or Bass?"
"Bass." She glanced in at the leftovers and takeout containers. Schreiner took a bottle of Bass Ale out and popped the top and handed it to her.
Schreiner looked at her and said, "Do you need legal representation?"
"We tried that," Karen said. "Remember? All I need is a place to stay." She drank the Bass. It had a bitter taste that she liked and it was ice cold.
"I can have a restraining order slapped on him," Schreiner said.
He seemed lucid now, the prospect of a job bringing him out of his marijuana fog.
"You want to tell me what's going on?"
She did, most of it, hiring him first and handing him a hundred dollars as a retainer. Then she got his assurance that anything she said was protected by attorney-client confidentiality; a signed document Schreiner drafted on his MacBook Pro attesting to their new relationship.
It felt good to let it out, get it off her chest. Karen told him how she did it, holding back a few details here and there, but giving him most of it in straightforward sequence. When she finished she felt relieved, like a weight had been lifted off her. She took a swig of ale. Schreiner leaned against the counter and fixed his stoned gaze on her.
"So you committed armed robbery and you're an accessory to murder and you've got Samir's army looking for you. Did I leave anything out?"
"No, that sounds about right," Karen said.
"You seem pretty cool," Schreiner said, "under the circumstances."
"You ought to see me from the inside," Karen said. "I'm scared out of my mind."
"I can get you a bodyguard. I know a former Secret Service agent. His name's Ray Pope, formerly on Presidential Protection Detail."
"I don't need a bodyguard," Karen said.
Schreiner said, "You're right, you need a platoon, a battalion."
"If you're trying to make me feel worse," Karen said, "you're doing a good job."
"Should I just shut up?" Schreiner said.
Karen said, "That's not a bad idea."
"I want to help you," Schreiner said.
"You are," Karen said, "more than you know."
Schreiner said, "Where's the money?"
"In a safe place," Karen said.
"I can hang on to it for you, if you want. Put it in the safe in my office, ease your mind while you're getting ready to leave town."
"That's okay," Karen said.
"You sure you don't want me to help you," Schreiner said, trying again.
"I'm all set," Karen said, trying to convince herself, but knew she wasn't even close.